Brother Dearest
by SumKid1O3
Summary: What if The Deep Roads expedition took a different turn when you finally found our way back to familiar ground again? What if you didn't need Anders to save your brother? Or is that all just wistful thinking..?
1. Chapter 1

**Brother Dearest.**

_Summary; What if The Deep Roads expedition took a different turn when you finally found our way back to familiar ground again? What if you didn't need Anders to save your brother? Or is that all just wistful thinking..?_

A/N; This is my first official fanfiction I post on the internet. English is definitely not my native language, so I apologize beforehand for any incorrect spellings and grammatical errors.

and just to make a short story even shorter, this was mainly written because I felt compelled to create an own sort of scenario about what happened in the deep roads expedition for my custom Hawke Geem, whom is my bloodmage is Dragon Age2. :)

dialogue and event may or may not be accurate to the official storyline, just as how this story may or may not be continued in the future.

R/R!~

_**All Dragon Age content belong to BioWare, I receive no compensation nor do I make any profit of this fanfiction._

**—**

Two full weeks, and an additional two because of a cave-in —- there were wounded everywhere, boys' went missing. Thankfully Sandal was found unharmed. Dark Spawn invasions, spider infested detours, brother betrayal, lurking Emissary's and countless Shades. Numerous Profane.. And Rock Wraiths. Demon deals, Maker knows what he's missed to mention.  
Geem Hawke knew right from the start that the Deep Roads expedition would be difficult, you're not told to gather up 50 sovereigns for nothing; but he never thought it would be That difficult. That it would be "we-barely-live-to-see-the-surface" kind of difficult.

It took the quartet another five days to find a familiar part of the Deep Roads, finally sensing an end to their torment they breathed a sigh of sincerest relief. Bickered a little with Varric for good measures, to get the spirit up again.

Little did he know, they had yet to see below the surface of the concept of torment.

—

–"Think we could... take a break?" It wasn't really until I heard my brother's faint voice that I noticed just how far behind the boy had fallen, "I feel... wrong." Or how exhausted and out of breath Carver sounded. Somewhere to my right I heard Varric casually assume the deep mushrooms from before were at fault, he didn't seem too worried, but it made me wonder why we gambled on eating them at all as I threw a glance over my shoulder and replied;

–"We can make camp if you're sick." But furthermore, it wasn't until Merrill suddenly dashed past me that a coil of confusion came along. Spread smothering hot inside my chest, and concern exploded onto my dirtied face once I had turned and saw her catch Carver around the arm before he could collapse completely.

–"Carver!" Why I called out so loud was a mystery, but somehow I felt compelled to. To let my brother hear my concern. Carver didn't answer though, and Merrill merely helped the boy to the ground; kept him stable in a sit with the same worried frown marring her delicate features. Her lips moved, and his lips moved but I could hear nothing of what they said, if they even said anything. Regardless, it takes only another second before I'm at their side, searching for signs of injuries with Carver now in my arms while Merrill holds his hands almost panicked. Her knuckles already whitening from the pressure.

–"–-just like that templar, I'll be just as dead, just as gone.. " Carver continues in disoriented mumbles then comes to explain how he thought the nausea was nothing, changes to how he Hoped it was nothing; deems himself an idiot –- which I can't really object to, he can be a real moron sometimes, always keeps his troubles to himself just like me. Family trait probably.

–"I'm not going to make it." That caught my attention, and in turn I hug him just a little tighter against myself. Maybe an attempt to be reassuring. Perhaps it's for no reason in particular. "I can't, not to the surface, not.. not anywhere. It's getting worse.." Distress lace his words, they're heavy and thick, he's scared. Trembles just the slightest, and I'm at a loss of how to comfort him.

Varric comes into view, a pained expression creasing his forehead. It must be bad.  
–"We're in the middle of nowhere," I want to scream, tell him to stop right there, that I don't want to hear it. But my throat's gone too dry to make a sound, then the dwarven rogue is already saying that one thing I wished he wouldn't. "we can't help him.."

Somewhere, somehow I must have been prepared for this, or I'm simply too struck by shock to remark on it. Merrill isn't as lucky, -if that's even a the word to be used there- has to cover her mouth to hold her voice. Little sobs and hiccups escapes despite her effort, somehow that only worsens the situation.

–"I'm sorry it had to end like this." Carver speaks again, almost inaudible now, like a whisper. But it's not for me. I watch silently as his bare forearm flexes, like the faintest spasm, in attempt to bring his hand to squeeze the small one still clutched tight and cramp like around his own.

Maybe it's an attempt to reassure her. Perhaps it's for no reason in particular.

Instantly I'm reminded of Aveline, of Wesley and memories of how abrupt the taint had claimed the templar over is suddenly flooding my head. I know I have to do something. Anything. It's like instinct and it must happen soon. Carver is already too many shades too pale, like a ghost, a sheen of sweat visible against his forehead. The blight is affecting his breathing too, destroying everything too fast for me to be rational.

–"You'll do it," I crease my forehead at his whisper, "won't you, Brother?" at his desire.

How.. How could I kill my own brother? Because Carver asked me to? Where was fair in that, where was - "don't worry so much of me. I can take care of myself Mother, you'll see."? How could this happen? In what manner of punishment was this supposed to be justice? I've never interfered with templars businesses or caused too much trouble for myself with my magic. I never practiced where people were around to get hurt and never did anything to piss anyone off so badly that my baby brother should have to pay the price with his life for it! I already lost Bethany, I already lost my father, when would this madness come to an end!?

–"You always did ask for the world, Carver."

–"...And you always gave it.."

–"Close your eyes," I don't know what I'm saying, "I'll make it alright." I have no control of my movement. But as I shift my hold around his shoulder his eyes close obedient to my command, and I feel the light pressure of his head fall against my shoulder, accepting whatever is to come. For a moment I see Bethany there, lying untroubled and still, and then I see my father. Merrill stares up at me, pleading, begging, but I ignore her green doe like eyes full of tears and reach for the dagger at her belt instead. I don't know why, where or how I lost mine but it's insignificant now, hers' will do just fine. It's for the same purpose, doesn't need to be anything fancy, just get the job done quickly.

–"Hawke, phe.. please.. please don't.." Although there's no move to interfere as I bring the dagger up to the juncture of Carver's neck and shoulder, it's not until Varric rests a meaningful hand on her arm and calls her "Daisy" in that soft voice of his, indicating something inevitable is about to happen, that she turns away. Every hue of anguish, distress and heartache conveyed into that one devastated look on her face.

–"...Merrill," tentative and soft I call her attention, despite her efforts she seems unable to ignore it and eventually has no choice but to meet my eyes, lithe frame shaking almost beyond control; quaking with indescribable grief, "keep talking to him." her eyes dilates in disbelief, and I let the curved blade of her Dalish dagger down across the palm of my hand.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

A/N; another chapter up, for those who read; well, I know it's been viewed at least, and that's more than I could hope for! :)

I've already changed the rating once, but I feel I might need to change it up again to be safe, but I don't know yet; gimme a heads up if you think I'll need to please? D:

**Just wanna give a big shout out to Wandom Wockets -because I don't know how to/if you can reply to someone's comment- for their kind review, gosh that's the nicest someone has ever said about my English! Glad you enjoy the first chapter of the story! :D**

dialogue and event may or may not be accurate to the official storyline, just like how this story ay or may not be continued in the future.

R/R~

And as always;

_**All Dragon Age content belong to BioWare, I receive no compensation nor do I make any profit of this fanfiction._

**—**

I hiss behind grit teeth as the healing potion fills the gaping wound in my arm. It stings–- no, that's not accurate enough; it's like the liquid itself is acid that melts away tissue and muscle before mending the agony little by little. My breath comes embarrassingly heavy with exhaustion and I see Uphir just a foot away, licking his own wounds.

It's not our first time encountering an Ogre, more our hundredth in fact; but Creator are those beasts vile, massive muscle freaks with a taste for blood. Not to mention those gigantic horns, thick like tree roots.. Without a properly equipped tank with armour and all that jazz to distract it, it's pretty though to nail all the good spots on its back without being nicked in the progress.

I'm a rogue, I do backstabbing for a living but I'm not a miracle.

–"Here, boy." Immediately the Mabari lifts his head, heeding my voice as I beckon him over with little effort. "Good job there, though he got you pretty good too huh?" Always the proudest of fighters, Uphir stays stock still as I check him over thoroughly. Turns him about left and right with his consent. But upon detecting nothing beside a minor scratch on his hind leg I focus solely on smearing a bit of sticky poultices across the gash running over his shoulder, thinking it almost looks like Qunari war paint. But still, being caught by those massive horns just like I were, it's a grand relief to see that nothing seems broken.

Beyond scratches I'm alright, and Uphir is alright, and that's all that matters to me.

Some time while deep in thought I guess I must've turned incautious, for I'm rewarded with a sharp bark as he suddenly launches for my fingers, his only way to tell me 'that hurt'.

I'm equal part quick to apologize as he is to forgive me.

Before I set to collect whatever arrows can still be reused however, I bend down to touch my forehead to his smaller one; a good luck charm whenever we're fixed up after battle. We've done this for as long as my memories fare, and despite the frowns I earn I can't end the habit. I've tried to reason with them, saying it's like any good pat on the back or hand shake for a job well done –- but am only further ridiculed by a roll of their eyes and showered with mumbles how treating a Mabari like that must be an "elf-thing". Whatever that means.

When I pull away again I see concern in those deep obsidian eyes, but I only shake my head in response, there's no denying my gauntlet is perfectly ruined; but beyond the shreds of torn leather I'm alright. Uphir is alright, and that's all that matters to me.

–"Let's proceed, shall we?" I yank out the last two bloodied arrows, loaded two quarters deep into the eye socket of the fallen Ogre, and think nothing more of the most frequent Grey Warden recruits, nor of my comrades that seems to have gone AWOL as I venture further down the Deep Roads accompanied by my most faithful friend every step of the way.

—

I don't know where I am...

My thoughts are scattered, like fragmented glass...  
Sharp, edgy little pieces that cuts me whenever I reach out to remember...  
I blink my eyes, one time. Two times. Three times. I can't see a thing, it's pitch black all around like I'm asleep.  
It takes a long while of just lying here alone in silence before some sort of sensation begins to seep into me, it's only a vague resemblance obscured by the thick nothingness my environment seems consist off however.

Somehow there's a faint fragrance of memory in which I recall once being warm, although there's only a tingle of lukewarm sensation across my skin now. Something shifts around me and in consequence I feel like air, or something akin a cloud perhaps. Light and nonexistent. It's pleasant in a way so I close my eyes, thinking that maybe I can float away from here.

Wherever I am.

If I'm lucky maybe I'll soon be allowed back to where I was before all this.

Wherever that was.

If I'm lucky..

I'm not...

This feeling of being afloat doesn't last me long, for I'm suddenly hit by a bone shattering force in the midst of relaxing that causes my entire body to go heavy like lead in an instant. All except my head, which's fuzzy as though filled with cotton.  
I don't like this. It feels wrong even as the tremendous force doesn't seem to weight me down no more.  
Very wrong.

Queasy and uncomfortable I gather myself up, tries to flex my arms and prop up on numbed elbows, only to realize I can't seem to move them. My feet then: I think lightly, there's more ways to get up even if my arms have fallen asleep.  
I fight the lingering exhaustion poisoning me, gather my legs under me until I'm ready to arch and heave myself up –- then it hits me.

I'm pinned slick to the surface below me.

A terrible premonition grabs at me, accompanied by stark concern crawling along my neck – leaving the baby hairs standing on end in the progress. I swallow the growing lump in my throat and tries to keep myself composed as I writhes again. Nothing. Tries to tilt my head sideways. Nothing, I can't budge, and it leaves me perplexed and uneasy in a frightened sort of confusion. My movements are restricted for some reason.

Don't panic. Why am I restricted..?

Don't panic. What am I restricted by...?

There's nothing on me.  
Just now I notice my deep breathing has turned heavy, quick and jagged, on the verge of hyperventilating.

I'm panicking.

Left imprisoned in my own paralyzed body it takes but another moment of wallowing in overwhelming anxiety before I'm washed over by a tidal wave of raw energy, infusing me with something I can only vague describe as waking up after several days of rest.

**–"-–arver.."**

–"What?!" I blur out so loud I surprise myself, caught of guard by the voice which doesn't answer my shaken yell. Maybe, maybe it was my imagination?.. Mother always said I had a lively one. I dismiss the thought which doesn't really matter, for what hold significantly more to importance to me than some imaginary voice is the fact I've sat myself up.

I can move.

Immediately I bolt upright and away from where I laid a breath ago, then haste to make use of this given opportunity to turn my head once I've gotten far away enough to feel safe. While shaking the stiffness from my limbs, I almost basks in the allowance to progress my surrounding, it must have cleared from the fog like darkness by the same time my invisible boundaries was lifted.

It's still hazy though, almost as if two layers of the same landscape is overlapping, put together just slightly amiss to make the contours blurry and unfocused. I close my eyes tightly for a moment, rubs at them with my palms then reopened them. I suppose something must be wrong with my vision because everything seems to be in various shades of green. Maybe beige, or brown...?

**–"Open your eyes,"** There's that voice again, or at least I think it is, **"please do.."** full of sorrow and torment. Mother? No, I dismiss the guess, it's female and very familiar but it sounds younger? My mind hurts while I ponder, trying to remember, shortly afterwards I must abandon the task, my attempt obviously fruitless anyway.

What does it mean 'open your eyes' though? My eyes _are_ open. I see strange things afloat like islands in the sky, it seems the ground has been churned up for some reason, and–- and deformed pillars spirals up to make haphazard arches above my head! A shocked noise flees me at the sudden rush of passing mumbles, for a moment I thought I saw several pale gestalts walking by out of the corner of my eyes but it's nothing there when I look. A chill runs down my spine.

This place's insane, I don't want to be here anymore.

_Carver.._

In a fit of anxiety I whirl at the sound of my name, by instinct, a reflex. But once again there's nothing there to meet my eye, nothing but this uneven confusing place painted in faded hues of green and hints of beige and brown for reasons beyond my comprehension! I draw a deep breath, then paranoia infects me.

What.. what was that, just now..?

My mind's a scramble of conflicted frustration as I break into a sprint.

There must be a way out of here.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

A/N; whoo third chapter~ :D no it's really just a continuance from where the second left off, because I couldn't fit it all in one~ ; n; *that's what I get for writing on IPhone I guess!* anyway, hope you like, and note me if anything seems unclear! c:

dialogue and event may or may not be accurate to the official storyline, just like how this story ay or may not be continued in the future.

R/R~

And as always;

_**All Dragon Age content belong to BioWare, I receive no compensation nor do I make any profit of this fanfiction._

**—**

I run for a long time.

But despite how many times I stumble upon some sort of portal, regardless which way I go down a road junction and from which way I enter another section left or right I'm always warped back to the same blighted spot I first woke up.

In the midst of believing I see a way I haven't gone down before I bolt for it, eager to leave –- then stops dead in my tracks, sighting the clear silhouette of a figure blocking my path onwards. This time it's no illusion, for It stares empty towards me, right at me; dressed in what appears to be ivory silk, hair white like the shine of the sun. Surrounded by a thick, red aura that radiates and pulsates in gentle waves that feels everything but friendly. Almost like its alive. Waiting in standby, ready to devour everything and anything in its path given a signal.

Anything and everything in its path, like me...

A Demon. Realizations dawns upon me.

This is the Fade, residence of demons.

_Come here, Carver._

I have no time to dwell on how it knows my name, automatically doing the opposite of what it asks –too unsure of its business with me to gamble– and recoils backwards as if repelled. Unable to take my eyes off of it, at least it's a slight comfort that it doesn't seem interested in following me.

I'm no mage, not even a templar which makes it impossible to determine for what purpose it showed itself, or what intention it might have now that it's here. But there's a voice in the back of my head telling me to be cautious, that this being is dangerous and that alone is reason enough to distance myself from it.

To haste this involuntary visit and find a way back to where the Fade doesn't reach.

_Time is short._

I manage only a few steps away until I hear it again, the demon, breathing into my ear and sending waves of goosebumps over my skin. Reflexively I twist with my hand drawn into a fist, ready to strike out, to create distance between us but again –just like before– there's nothing to meet my eye once I have turned. Only the vague familiar sight of a small lake, a homey cottage at the end of a field.. Of the door to a home now right in front of my nose. My eyes widens in realization, struck by absolute disbelief.

It's our old home in Lothering.

Bewildered I blink several times, clutching my head and sinks to the ground. There's no fussy contours anywhere this time, even a bird is chirping from a distance and it makes me wonder if I dreamt it all. If this is real?

Once again I'm plagued by an awful ache in my head, a poisonous echo, but it's not quite intense enough to keep my thoughts on hold. What is happening to me? Am I going insane? Being here, now, it's like I was never trapped in the Fade to begin with, like the haphazard landscape didn't exist but how can a whole place just up and vanish when I tried to leave it several times over and over and failed?!

**–"Carver, look at me,**" I shuts my eyes to that voice this time,** "focus on the sound of my voice,"** covers my ears desperately,** "please, you must.**" anything to block out that begging full of worry by which I can't remember the owner of. It's the same one from before, not the demon, but that woman. That woman it feels like I know, like I know well. Yet what difference does it make, for there's no one here but me! **"No. N-no you can't close your eyes!"**

–"Shut up! Leave me at peace!" I can't take it anymore, I'm on my feet again so fast I can barely keep my footing. Aiming for the front door of our home. Something like instinct tells me I'll be alright if I go there, if I open that door–-

**–"CARVER!" **Reaching forward in a flutter of movement, Maker help me all but ready to yank the door of its blighted hinges my fingertips only nudges the handle before everything withdraws from my touch. My breath is taken away from the piercing pain that runs through me. From the blinding light that comes rushing up to meet me with the raw force of a charging Ogre.

—

When I comes around conscious enough to deem myself alive again I'm lying on the ground –or at least I think it might be the ground– immovable once more. Surrounded by a thickened darkness.

I don't know where I am.  
My thoughts are scattered, like fragmented glass.

I don't know where I am...  
I can't register what is happening, what has happened.  
I don't want to.

I just..

But I feel wrong, out of place, like I shouldn't be here.

I can't see a thing, can't hear a sound and the air is suffocatingly tight in my lungs.

As I begin to pick the pieces of my mind together little by little there's a pressure on my forehead, the suddenly of it makes me jolt -or at least I think I do- but there's no way I can see what's on me.

I try to raise my hand, but it's so heavy I must give up. Evidently too weak to will my hand up to touch whatever it is gripping my head, I can't fathom the substance seeping out from it either. The liquid is warm though, almost pleasantly so and for some reason I don't really mind its presence.

Albeit bizarre at least it doesn't hurt, only tickles a little from how it follows the contours across my face. Trails around my nose, slides over my cheeks and comes down my chin...  
It pools in the hollow of my collarbone, spills over and runs along my shoulders.. causing a stillborn laugh to escape me, what a peculiar feeling.

Gravity mustn't exist here.. I conclude in my thoughts, or I would be standing upright yet lying down at the same time from the way this substance is behaving, and that's impossible.  
Closing my eyes to it I try to relax the best of my ability, suddenly too tired to feel curious. Maybe I can sleep here..

I feel like I'm drowning..

It takes another blink of a second, then the previously peaceful feeling turns sour and nausea hits me like a kick in the chest... jerking me awake with the consequence of a harsh coughing fit. I can't focus my mind, direct my thoughts anywhere else than that there is something clogging up my windpipe, how I'm cut short of air supply, and left gasping for the oxygen I'm being denied. Deprived of.

Through the haze of hysteria a foreign liquid foams out of my throat, scorching as it brims over and gushes out. I can't focus, can't nothing but grasp my throat in trembling uncharacteristically pale hands like it would somehow soothe my suffering. Overcome by awful agony my veins feels as though on fire, like there's acid in my bloodstream - toxic in my head, like an asphyxiating kind of pain is tearing me to shreds inside out. It's as though I'm being drained, like my insides is forced up through my gullet and my life is being squeezed from my veins by a gruesome force.

Somewhere in the middle of this maddening experience of suffocating on my intestines I can hear a gushing of water resounds around me. There's a thick stench of iron infesting the air, it's in my nose and even as I can't breath it fills my lungs somehow - causing my eyes to blur with the prickle of tears. No it's not water.. Staring at the lukewarm fluid that goes everywhere, that I'm rapidly sinking into, that seeps into my clothes and stains my skin, I see it's blood.

I'm drowning in Blood.

As the world slowly fades and I succumb to a darkness dyed red, I choke a meek cry for help.. An intense buzzing invades my ears, my vision alternates between flashes of red and black, and then I'm unable to see anything at all. The sound of gushing liquid grows louder with a squelch and a goosh, it's in my mouth, my nose and ears.  
I can't tell if my eyes are open or closed anymore, all I know is that nobody can hear me, there's nobody to call out to, no one that can save me.

I'm not only drowning:

I'm also dying...


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

A/N; Forth chapter~ :) not much to say beside a huge **thank you** to those who have read up to this point!

dialogue and event may or may not be accurate to the official storyline, just like how this story may or may not be continued in the future.

R/R~

And as always;

_**All Dragon Age content belong to BioWare, I receive no compensation nor do I make any profit of this fanfiction._

_**–**_

I know I shouldn't had, Deus regards so much in this world with absolute caution and there's little else he loathes to a greater degree than when I raise my voice. Consequents an instant reflexive withdrawal which reduces him to nothing but that akin an embodied object, pressed as flat against me as physically possible in a blind sought of security from that which frightened him. I hate to be the cause of his sublime anxiety but this once my composure inevitably imploded beyond every manner of self-restraintand I had no power to stop my dagger's unsheathing until the fine tip is already lined up a mere hair's breadth away from cutting that blighted Shemlen's throat open like our hunters' would a gutted fish.

You shan't look a gift horse in the mouth they say. And you most definitely don't call the person about to save your brother's life an apostate because his clothes isn't 'Grey Warden' themed.

You don't belittle the life I put back together from an empty shell to an actual living breathing person without facing the consequences.

—

–"How are you holding up, Hawke?" I can't say for sure how long I have sat out here, almost isolated by the outskirt of this makeshift campsite, that is. Decoding time in the Deep Roads isn't exactly child's play, were I to take a guess from the over a month worth of practice however I suppose it's probably been an hour and a half since Carver stopped screaming.

Regardless how hard I squeeze my temples between palms in growing frustration I can still hear him though, corse voice like nails to my brain for each choked, loud gasp crammed with agony and despair as though he can't breathe. A cruel reminder of my uselessness in his stabilization. Which's the grandest torture for I really thought I could handle it, being there when he needed me, but barely five minutes into the treatment I had to leave.

Too overwhelmed by stirred up emotions to keep myself composed when slapped in the face with that sharp 'Why did I bring you with me'.

It's not a comfort, but at least Carver isn't screaming anymore, and the fact that Varric has come to check on me doesn't make me any more willing to take my head out of my hands. He knows damn well how I'm holding up without having to ask. "..I think the Kid's progressing with Junior."

–"You almost shot his–-.." I cut myself short as it strikes me that I don't know what the other elf is, a Master, a brother, cousin, lover or just a friend; thus for the sole sake of keeping peace with the few soldiers within earshot I decide to settle for the last mentioned. "Friend. I don't know how you can trust them so easily. Who knows what they're doing to Carver." It's impulsive, more accusation than question and said with more spite than I intended but somehow I don't feel like apologizing. Nor do I see the purpose of trusting someone I just met.

Yes, I'm grateful the Dalish Warden came across our specific route and that he took us back to their camp, yes I'm well aware the Mage boy under his care is working hard on improving my brother's dire condition.

But I don't know either of those anyone's, neither intention or what will happen after this.

Merrill is the one with apparent kinship to the blonde elf, a previous clanmate she said. That's also all she said, and the way her expression changed as we approached the largest tent of the Grey Wardens camp, the way her posture turned rigid and weary sighting the younger Elven Mage inside it – that thick, shifting aura surrounding that boy, it foretold warnings to thread near him with considerable caution.

As if something foreign, almost Ancient were at his disposal.

Guarding him.

Even in the face of life and death are none of those factors specifically comforting.

Not that... Whatshisname seemed any less fiercely observant of the boy after my impulsive contestation as of why they had an apostate at arms reach either. An unnecessary dispute from a foolish assumption based off of their mismatching uniforms, I admit. All that mattered right then was Carver's shallow breathing, and in a fit of believed unjust from the way he seemed locked up inside that tent I spoke without consideration about the possible offend. A fit of believed unjust that very near cost me my head hadn't Merrill been there-–

–"You know me Hawke, I make my opinions as I go." My thoughts break from the sudden casualty of his reply, although I feel every unspoken objection in what Varric doesn't say, doesn't need to say, because the burn of his eyes in my neck conveys the point across clear enough: 'Whatever the Kid's voodoo is, at least it's not Blood Magic'.

It makes my shoulders sag further.

I know I'm without right to judge, but either nobody miraculously ever noticed my puppeteering on the battle field or they thought it was Merrill in lack of better knowing. There's no relevance to it in all honesty, serves no purpose to throw speculations left and right and conclude that 'perhaps they just never saw'. Their lack of objections up to this point doesn't matter and neither does it if their tolerance of Blood Magic usage simply end at the destruction of enemies.

Sod it, who even cares if nobody can believe a Blood Mage to have harmless intentions with his magic!

What happened yesterday is just a Maker-damned turn of event which doesn't even concern them. Back when we fled Lothering I left the choice to Aveline as Wesley lay dying at that cliff, when she then made her decision to spare him the suffering of 'turning' I kept my opinions to myself solely because it was none of my business to begin with. That's no secret, both Varric and Merrill overheard our discussion to give the subject a final closure before Aveline decided to take her chances with that Donnic fellow.

Likewise Wesley to Aveline, Carver left his life in my hands. Needless to say, since I told Anders to stay in his clinic in Darktown and take some time to heal from that traumatizing incident with Karl, I had to use whatever in my own power to at least **try** to save Carver. I shouldn't have to justify that action, because to me there was no second choice; the option to cut my baby brother's chest open with a dagger never existed.

Not to mention what my Mother would do if I lost Carver to the blight down here, let alone if I were the one to end him when I confessed my need of **his** help to her. I can't put her through another miserable heartache, not after having witnessed how threadbarely she handled Bethany's death. Her sweetheart, her only daughter. She's already done so much for us, already lost a husband that loved her dearly, and if I were to carelessly lose her youngest son as I did Bethany then there's no one left to take care of her when the templar comes for me.

No one left to carry the family name Hawke to its full potential.

–"Kid's been asking for you, several times in fact. I don't know what he wants but, he seems genuine in wanting to see you." I'm pulled from another virulent storm of knotted thoughts, honestly surprised that Varric remained despite how distant and silent I'm aware I must have been. Still, what is furthermore bemusing is the sudden pressure of his unmistakably warm hand firm on my shoulder; a gentle act of presumed comfort that draws my attention to its owner more successful than his voice.

I must look ten times as wrecked as I feel -face and clothes smeared with filth, blood and sweat, brows drawn taut in conflict and hopelessness- or at least something tremendously worse for wear for the Dwarf's washed face to soften with such significance. He sighs slightly and then there's a hint of that certain friendliness you don't want anything but to believe in. "It'll be okay, Hawke, Junior will be alright. Now, get over to the comfy fire or stay here brooding but don't start anything, because there's quite a few more soldiers here than it is of us."

I don't know if I imagined it, maybe I did, but underlaying the suggestive advises I thought there was emphasis put on 'us'.. I don't know if it indicates we're still a team, don't dare hope for it but it's certain I've sat out my chance to ask him to rephrase. Left to my thoughts on this log, my signature amber eyes fixates on Bianca as her dwarven wielder disappears further and further into the slowly relaxing camp with a growing tight lump of guilt in my chest.

With so much responsibility laid on these inexperienced shoulders, I can't begin to confess the raw gratitude of having him around.

He knows damn well how I'm holding up without having to ask.

However I'm supposed to find a way to raise the family name of Hawke from nothing but crumbled ashes, in whatever time there is left to work with, is in the unknown future.

What Varric intended to achieve by picking me and Carver up from the Gallows of Kirkwall that afternoon, if anything at all, is beyond my understanding. As is where he's gone off, be it to tell his unbelievable stories to the ones seated by the fire or to haven some dwarven alone time, but whichever it is I'm eighty shades above grateful and his choice to disengage our majorly one-sided interaction couldn't have been more convenient as of now.

Doubled over in a sudden rush of nausea I cover my mouth to quench the harsh cough with little to no success, smothering discomfort settles like a tightened rope and the strain on my windpipe easily brews a single few pearls of sweat. It's familiar and terrifying at the same time, my palm comes away dappled by sticky blackness, almost ink like, then there's a sudden pull of something in my blood stream, the unclear echoes of vicious voices in my head speaking intelligibly something's.

Reluctant, like that of a wistful calling. Or a plea for aid..

Whatever it is, it's gone just as suddenly as it came.

And again that sickened, indescribable feeling ceases by the time I notice the scorched collar of my robes, how the skin around my shoulder is rubbed raw, and while pulling up my sleeve; there are those peculiar signs carved across my right arm again.

Like some sort of blood runes.

Unsure what it is, what's causing it or what it means, somehow it feels as though there's a connection lingering back to my father for whatever reason.

But I dismiss the oncoming concerns with a shake of the head, too reluctant for more confusing downward spirals of thoughts to speculate on why this headache has come back and for what reason, and corrects my sleeve and collar with the best of my ability whilst standing back up to make my way towards the largest of the Grey Wardens tents again.

However I'm supposed to find a way to raise the family name of Hawke from nothing but crumbled ashes, in whatever time there is left to work with, is in the unknown future.

And with the mounting pile of troubles that seems to only grow larger and larger for every day, right now I can only pray with every fiber of my being that this expedition won't be the end of me.

Neither of me nor my brother dearest.


End file.
